


Into Darkness Fell His Star

by Narya (Narya_Flame), Narya_Flame



Series: The Wanderer [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Annúminas, Arnor, Gen, Music, POV Outsider, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23466307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: A bard of Annúminas cannot find the right melody for his song - but help is waiting in the shadows.Written for Back to Middle-earth Month 2020, Endings and Beginnings.
Series: The Wanderer [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1133342
Comments: 18
Kudos: 66
Collections: Back to Middle-earth Month 2019: Bingo Bash Redux, Back to Middle-earth Month 2020: Endings and Beginnings





	Into Darkness Fell His Star

**Author's Note:**

> Playing around with the SWG Back to Middle-earth Month prompt generator, I got “finishing a book, song, or other creative work” in the Endings category. This fitted quite nicely with something I had sitting around from last year's B2MeM (my response to G48 “The Death of Gil-galad” on the 'Maglor Through History' card), and happily, the daily prompt for March 6th was “finish a WIP fanwork.”

**Annúminas  
T.A. 461**

The beginning was always like this.

The words rattled round in his head like pebbles – clumsy, unlovely and dull. Balakan could feel no hint of the chords that would bind them into song. Melody pranced out of reach, like a shadow half-glimpsed through trees, or a voice snatched away on the wind. He sighed and plucked a string on his sawtry, sounding the lyrics aloud.

_“Hear now of Gil-galad the Elf-king  
O he of the fair, free lands...”_

The river under the bridge murmured as though amused by a secret. Balakan sighed again and leaned against the parapet. Sometimes it helped to stand here at night. When the stars shone clear and the wind blew down from the hills, he fancied he could catch a breath of the old world in the water's echoes, as though the underground caverns it flowed from remembered the Elder Days.

But tonight the air was still. Quiet tendrils of autumn still clung to the land, and his old bones ached, resigned to the cold that would come.

“Who speaks of Ereinion Gil-galad?”

Balakan jumped. He'd had no idea he was observed. He tucked his sawtry under his left arm and slid his right hand towards his knife. “Who asks?”

A low, musical chuckle curled up from the foot of the bridge. “Be at your ease.” The shadows shifted, and a tall, slender figure in a hood and a cloak stepped into the moon's soft light. “And have a care for your instrument. I would not see it damaged on my account.”

Balakan's grip on his sawtry tightened, though he was careful not to squeeze it too hard – and he still grasped the hilt of his blade. The city was safe enough as a rule, but there was no need to be careless. Footpads, cutpurses and occasionally worse had been known to strike from the dark.

He doubted, though, that they sounded – or _moved_ – much like the man who had hailed him.

The stranger paused at a respectful distance. He tilted his head as though considering, and then pulled down his hood. “There. Now you see me plain.”

Black hair like liquid silk was caught in a low, loose braid. A few strands had escaped, and hung in waves around his face. Moonlight gleamed on stray silver threads. The tips of his ears were pointed like the nib of a quill, and his eyes shone like star-fire on steel. Balakan breathed in, and the air prickled, lifting as it did before the coming of a storm.

“You're an Elf,” he said – unnecessarily.

The stranger's mouth lifted. “That I am,” he agreed. “And I have no intention of robbing you. If I did, I would have taken your purse already, and been gone before you knew it was lost.”

“I believe you.” Though Balakan touched his pocket, just in case.

The Elf leaned against the parapet and looked downriver out to the lake, careful to remain a few steps away. “What is your name, Master Bard?”

“Balakan. And I'm no master.” He plucked a tentative chord on his sawtry. “Though I know enough to make a living.”

“By writing songs of the great Elven kings?”

The night air was cool, but Balakan's cheeks flushed. “I meant no offence -”

“And none was taken.” The Elf lifted a pacifying hand. “It's quite alright. I would not have their names forgotten.” A sidelong glance from the silvery eyes. “Although...if I might make a suggestion?”

“Please do.”

“Find the soul of your song first. Then seek for the words.”

Balakan shook his head. “I'm not sure I follow.”

“Do not force the melody from the lyrics. Think of the story you wish to tell, and the feeling you yearn to evoke. Find what it is that calls to you, that elusive thing that you long for – the idea that transports you and burns at the edge of your dreams. Catch its scent before you do anything else. Give yourself over to it.” As he spoke, the river beneath them sighed. “The words will flow from there.”

“I see.” Balakan gazed down at his hands. “My mother could do that. I'm not sure I have her gift.”

“You hear the music of the water, do you not?”

Startled, Balakan responded with caution. “I suppose so. If you want to call it that.”

“It is the same skill, whether you listen for the river's voice, or the pains of first love, or the song of the distant past.” The Elf held out long, gloved hands. “May I?”

Balakan would normally never let a stranger touch his mother's instrument, but he knew instinctively that the Elf would treat it with care and respect. He nodded, passed it over, and stood back to watch.

The Elf removed his gloves and stroked his fingers lovingly over the board and strings. The flesh of one hand was horribly scarred – streaked and strangely glossed, as though it had once run like glue down the elegant bones. Balakan swallowed and tried to look away.

“It gives me no pain.” The stranger's smile was shadowed and faint. “At least not in the way you might think.”

And then there was no more time to wonder. The Elf's brushed the fine metal strings with a touch like a brother's caress, and he lifted his head and sang to the sleeping city, his voice soft and rich and as cool as the spray of the sea. Balakan felt it course through him like a tide and a fever at once, dizzying and sweet, and sharp like a half-healed wound. The Elf's face was hard and fair in the moonlight; the darkness of long grief lay in his eyes, and memory ached under his song. Balakan must have closed his eyes, for he saw a pale dawn gleam on a thousand swords, while banners of silver and blue unfurled in the breeze. Tall, fey warriors held weapons aloft; a bearded king stood in a hilltop tower, watching, his heart rising in hope as the host rode out of the West. A cry pierced Balakan's soul like a lance, though the words were strange, and he did not know what they meant.

_“Aurë entuluva! Aurë entuluva!”_

And then sorrow, and shadow, and a star's light coldly snuffed out.

He had no recollection of leaving the bridge. When the spell receded and he came to himself, he was in his cramped little workroom, breathlessly scribbling the words of the song that consumed him.

_“But long ago he rode away  
And where he dwelleth, none can say...”_

Hot tears pooled in the crags of his face. It was not, he knew, the song of the Elf on the bridge – but the melody flowed like a wellspring, and words followed in in its wake.

As the years passed, and his lay was sung in taverns and courts and by the shores of the sea, he often thought of the dark-haired stranger. Snatches of memory returned in time. He recalled standing on the bridge, his tongue thick in his mouth, and dazedly asking, “Who are you?”

His companion had answered, “A wanderer. An exile.” A modest shrug. “No-one of consequence.”

But Balakan knew the old tales well enough to ponder, when his wits returned. A lone, roaming Elf...a badly burned hand...a voice that could cleave through gold...

 _Surely not._ He dared not let himself believe it. _It's not possible._

In the light of day it seemed mad. It could not be that legends walked the earth; tales did not spring to life out of grass. Yet sometimes, on the edge of dreams, the song and the vision still whispered, and Balakan's heart knew the truth. It warmed him like fire on a winter's evening, and woke in him a yearning as cruel as a blade.

If the strange Elf ever came back, Balakan knew that he would follow him anywhere – even unto the ending of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> The bard of Arnor writing the Lay is originally bunn's headcanon, which I have adopted.


End file.
